


the morning after

by PikaCheeka



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Shameless Smut, bored sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/pseuds/PikaCheeka
Summary: There's only one reasonable solution to the embarrassment of accidentally having bored sex with your work partner, as Virus and Trip discover.





	the morning after

**Author's Note:**

> Between a month of travel, the new school year starting, and me getting extremely distracted by doctor x Virus drabbles, I've started about ten fics but failed to finish much of any these last two months. This is one of those rare fics where Virus does not have a long history of being a bottom slut (rip one of my favorite headcanons), and this fact plays a central role here. I had a lot of fun writing a "different" Virus. I hope to have another chapter of my longfic up by the end of the month, and might finally just suck up the shame and post a doctor x Virus drabble dump in the near future too!
> 
> (Oh yes - and I might work out a sequel to this at some point.)

\-- the night of --

 

He'd always heard stories about roommates, coworkers, friends, even siblings, who lose their minds and fucked each other in the dead of summer. It had always seemed crazy to him, why someone would seek out another's body heat in August, when the winter stretched so long and frigid. But he understands now. The heat does make one crazy, seeps into one's veins and drives them to act in ways they never would were the air not so oppressive, has they enough oxygen to breathe. _If one is already so hot, so crazed, so wet and hungry for air, one might as well get an orgasm or two out of it._

Bare feet kicking an empty beer can across the floor as he half-fell over the couch to lean in, whisper in Trip's ear, the only thing louder than the silence of the broken air conditioner his suggestion. _I'll blow you if you can make me drip without touching below the waist._ He hadn't even been drunk. Tipsy, unsteady, but not smashed enough to warrant that; it had just spilled out of him when he'd practically draped himself over the younger man and inhaled. Trip had stared, slowly crushed out his cigarette on the table beside him without breaking eye contact before grinning. _Yea and if I can make you come then I get to fuck you._ It didn't seem fair, but it seemed impossible for things to go that far. The words hung in the stagnant air between them, unable to dissipate in the humidity, before Virus had replied. _Sure. No way you can do that anyway._

He'd been wrong.

Trip had pulled him over the back of the couch, had him pressed between his body and the cushions almost immediately. "Where you sensitive?"

"As if I'd tell you,” he had only grinned then, confident that this was a game he could win, but it hadn’t lasted. Because it is too easy for Trip to break him down, far easier than Virus ever imagined.

He laughs in the beginning, breathless gasps as they kiss and touch one another. They’re going at it hard, pulling hair and nipping tongues, and he doesn’t think anything of it initially. Because they’re just bored. They’re both so dominant, so controlling, of course any interaction between them would be like this. But uncertainty begins to seep in when he realizes how hard he already is, how precome is dampening his briefs, how intense and heated this has become. Because Trip is too good at this, sucking and biting his nipples as he ghosts fingers over his throat, down his spine. A few times he moves too much, and Virus will moan, push him away with a "nothing below the waist, remember", only to have Trip grin against his skin with a "yet." He gets forceful, dominating, a slow pressure building until Virus is pressed hard against the back of the couch, back arched and throat exposed as the younger man slips hands under his shirt and begins stroking his chest. _This is a stupid idea_ , he wants to say, squeezing his legs together and struggling to ignore the heat in the pit of his stomach, the trembling of his thighs, the way Trip growls as he kisses him again, solid and domineering. But the words don’t come, because the heat drags nothing but gasps from his throat.

At one point he accidentally touches himself, desperate to do something about that painful hardness, a motion he only notices because Trip crows triumphantly against his throat.

He jerks his hand back immediately. "If I come now it doesn't count," he moans, but the fear is cutting through him again. Because this won't make a difference to Trip.

"Nuh uh. I made you do that," he's almost purring.

Virus feels it happen as if he weren't a part of it. He _really_ doesn't want to do this anymore, exactly because his body wants to keep doing this, but he can't back down, can't stop himself as he continues leaning into Trip's touches, as the kisses and bites grow still more aggressive. He'd never realized before how good the younger man smelled.

But it only gets worse, because then he's talking about fucking him, a steady growling murmur about how tight and hot and wet he imagines Virus to be, how he'll make him scream and beg, how he'll rip him in two, as he kisses him again and again and refuses to let him breathe. And as Virus listens, he understands - this is a developed fantasy, something that Trip has played out in his mind a thousand times. "How long..." he can't get the sentence out, because he's everywhere, all over him.

"You don't wanna know," he whispers, pushes his tongue into his ear.

"Oh," it's all he can say, because somehow, somehow knowing that Trip has been thinking about this for years is enough to send a violent jolt down his spine and through his fingers. It's over faster than he expects it to be, even in the rising panic and disbelief, and he's hissing out a loud, "Fuck!

"Ahh...you came." Trip moves fast, giving Virus no time to come down from his high, to even try to hide it, before shoving his hand down the front of his briefs, a hand that had been dangerously close to begin with, _perhaps too close_.

The sensation makes him jerk back, slap his hand away before even registering what's happening. "I don't think we should do this. I was just kidding. I didn't think you could do it. I... You cheated, somehow. Didn’t you? You did it when I was distracted…already had your hand…” he's babbling, fingers twitching nervously against Trip's shoulder as he pushes him back. _We’ve been through too much. This isn't supposed to be between us. It’s bad enough, knowing what Trip thinks of me like that, knowing what he jerks off to…but you always knew that, didn’t you? You’d always suspected that he feels that way, that he wants you, and you still made that dare to him, still offered to suck his dick for no reason at all... And you knew he would probably cheat. He cheats at almost everything, doesn’t he? Yet you entered into this game._ He shudders. He doesn’t want to know this much about himself.

"No way, you said you'd do it." That lilt in his voice that has caused so many people over the years to misunderstand his playfulness, the same people who don’t understand that when a cat kicks a toy he’s clinging to, he’s mimicking a kill.

And he knows there's no way around it, that as much as Trip is quick to obey his every command, the younger man won't budge when initially promised something. He takes a deep shuddering breath and sighs. "Oh god, okay, okay, just give me a moment."

"You scared?" There’s a taunt in his voice that Virus doesn’t like.

"Of course I am," he snaps. "I've never done this before. And you're such an animal. You'll be too rough. I know it."

Trip only grins, trails fingers down his spine and rests them on his ass. "Can finally go below the waist now, yea?"

"I said give me a moment.” But he doesn’t try to push him off. “And get some lube." His voice is shaking. It reminds him of when he was a child, a time when fear ruled his life, and it disgusts him, though he is thankful only Trip is here to see this. The one person who can see him without a shirt on, much less the one person who can see him afraid.

"Why do we need lube?"

He hesitates then, realization dawning on him. Trip is so indulgent, so feral, so hungry for sex every second he’s awake, that it never even occurred to the older man that he’d be selective about who he shoved up against a wall and screwed. "You've never fucked a guy before?"

"Nuh uh. If I want a girl I get a real one, not a girly boy.”

"No experience then? Forget it. You’ll mess it up and it will be awful for both of us." He slaps him away and moves to stand, but his legs are still shaking and he stumbles before he can catch himself. He’s fucked men before, when curiosity struck him or he felt it would give him an advantage in some sort of business, but he’s never been on the receiving end. He wonders for a moment what Trip thinks of him as he sees his thighs trembling like this, if he thinks he’s lesser somehow. He’s always been keenly aware of their differences, of the nearly twenty kilograms Trip has on him, the cut of their cheekbones and brows, the shape of their fingers. A long time ago he had asked Trip why he followed him when they were kids, why he stayed with him, and he’d shrugged in response. _We’re the same._ A pause. _And you’re pretty._ He’d written it off as drug-addled ramblings at the time, which was easy to do with Trip because of how laid back he usually was, how his eyes rarely ever seemed to be fully open. But now it unnerves him, because he doesn’t know what Trip will think of him when this is over. He realizes with a start that he doesn’t want him to leave, that he’s concerned that whatever it is that keeps Trip around might vanish if they fuck, that he might not be so pretty and shiny and new anymore when it’s over and Trip will just walk away, and he doesn’t appreciate this new vulnerability.

But any doubts he has don’t last long as Trip laughs derisively, too many teeth and his uneven dimples showing, as if he knows exactly what Virus is thinking. "You’re different. You’re Virus, so we're doing it. Wanna take everything off?"

"Just pants." He says it faster than he wants to, unsure what to do with the vague relief he feels, just as he’s unsure of what to do with the other man’s bizarre logic. As if sex between them were only natural simply because they are what they are. Whatever _that_ is. _It doesn’t matter._ He pulls his own pants off before Trip can grab him. At least he won’t have to think about anything for much longer.

He sits between Trip's legs at first, leaning back against his chest and pulling his knees up and apart as he clings to the younger man's arms and tries to ignore the obvious erection pressed against his backside. _It’d be so much easier if I just had to blow him._ He knows he's going to cry, that the tears in his eyes already won't hold up against what's coming, that by the end of this he will be horribly humiliated. _It doesn't matter._ _It's only Trip, after all_ , he tells himself. Trip, who watched him scream and sob during surgery as a child, who he watched wet the bed in fear before certain experiments. Trip, who held him some nights they never speak of, when the past erupted in a cacophony of terror, who he held in return other nights. They've seen the worst of each other, and it hardly makes a difference now, right? Even if only one of them is getting fucked now, if if _if_... It all happens faster than he can process, and he knows his reason is slipping as he watches Trip rub his hole in slow circles, the lube cold and wet against him. The younger man is unexpectedly gentle, chin on his shoulder as he rubs the soft expanse of skin below his balls, and Virus finds himself holding his breath, curling his toes in anticipation.  

And he watches him push a lube-slicked finger inside of him. _Things aren't supposed to go in_ , is all he can register, disbelief and confusion over what he is doing momentarily overtaking the pain; _it doesn't look right. Doesn't feel_...and then he's gasping, throwing his head back and uttering a sound he had never thought he could make and digging bloody furrows in the younger man's arm. He’s thinking of nothing nothing _nothing_ because there is nothing of himself left but that heat and his entire body is on fire as Trip whistles softly and nuzzles his neck and pushes another finger into him far too soon.

"That your spot..."

"Don't! Don't touch..." he takes a heaving breath. He hadn't known his body could do that, and as he opens his eyes he is unsure if his legs are really shaking that violently or if he simply can't focus his vision. He isn't even sure if his glasses are on, but his arms won’t obey and he can’t raise a hand to find out. He isn’t sure if he’s even who he was a minute before.

"You're drooling really bad. Was it that good?"

There is no air in the room to respond with anything more than a soft whimper.

"Want it again." Despite the lilt in his voice, it isn't a question because they both know he will do it anyway, if not now then soon, when he can catch Virus off guard. What Virus wants doesn’t matter anymore, but he manages a reply anyway.

"Oh god. No, not..." _Yes yes yes_. He can’t say that though. There are rules. He isn’t sure how many they are allowed to break here. And he isn’t sure how much he wants to know about himself.

"Want me to get a condom..." Another failure to question.

"No just hurry up and finish," he bites his lip and exhales sharply. He can feel himself starting to panic. Because if it's going to be like that, if every thrust is going to do _that_ to him, he isn't sure he can handle it. He hadn’t expected to fall apart so quickly, hadn’t expected to want _more_ after only one accidental stroke, and all he can do is mask his desire as impatience to get it over with. He doesn’t trust himself anymore. "Put it in or I."

"You'll what..." And as he moves his finger just right, Virus jolts against him and makes another sound he’d never known humans could make.

It's nearly a minute before he can find words, before he can carefully form a sentence that comes out far more calmly than it should. "I think I'm going to pass out."

"Cute. I always like how honest you are, hm?"

He's on his back before he can respond. It's unnatural, uncomfortable, to have his legs bent back, to have hands on the backs and insides of his thighs, to have someone heavier than he on top of him when he is so vulnerable, and his ass feels exposed and cold and damp from the lube and strangely _empty_ because those fingers are gone. He finds himself wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it.

It doesn’t last.

His dick hurts, and for a moment he resists, pushing against Trip and whimpering, telling him to stop, slow down, that he really can't do this. The sensation of fullness, so different now than two fingers, is dizzying, sickening, and the fear hits him in waves because it’s far from over, because he hasn’t even begun to move yet. _It's just Trip._ _It's just Trip_. But he knows immediately that they were sloppy, that they weren’t slow enough, didn’t prepare him enough, that exactly _because_ he is Trip they were too familiar, ignoring the rules that the rest of the world abides by and just assuming it would be fine. The first few thrusts are brutal, agonizing as he’s stretched and dragged, as his muscles seize up at all the wrong moments, as he fixates on the blankness of the ceiling and tries to draw into himself.

And then Trip hits him again, in that spot, and he's aware of everything and nothing but the man above him and in him, burrowing into his marrow and seeping into his veins. Trip is _everything_ in that moment, and Virus stops caring about holding back, about boundaries and rules. There is not enough of him left for that; so instead he reaches up and wraps his arms around his shoulders, digs his nails down his back and viciously kisses him. He hooks a leg over the younger man’s hips, pushes up against him so hard they are nearly fighting, and as he arches his back and Trip scrapes teeth over his throat, he lets himself go.

He's louder than he ever imagined he could be, yelping and hissing and letting out a steady stream of expletives and commands. His hands crawl down his torso to find his dick, and he jerks himself off as he takes Trip’s tongue into his mouth and bites him. Trip laughs as he fucks him. He's too rough, just as Virus expected, but he hadn't expected to enjoy it as much as he is, hadn’t expected to be as responsive _._ They are all over one another, as if trying to get even closer. _Complement. We complement each other. Even in this._

It doesn't even occur to him until it's too late that Trip might come in him, that the younger man will just keep doing what he's doing unless told otherwise by the one person he might listen to maybe half of the time. So while he snaps his jaw open once or twice, seeks the words to command him to pull out before he comes, he knows by the staccato movements of their sex now that it won’t matter.

He growls a _Virus_ when he climaxes, a low threatening sound from so deep in his throat that Virus’ dick jumps to hear it so close in his ear. _I did this to him, I have this power over him._ And suddenly his hands are running through Trip’s hair, stroking down the sides of his face and throat in a manner far more intimate than anything else they’d just done, as he clenches his muscles and grinds his hips hard up against him. Trip obeys, and thrusts into him a few more times, managing to maintain hardness for the thirty seconds needed before Virus orgasms, a howling whiteness erupting through his spine. For the second time that night the violence of his climax surprises him, draws him outside of himself to wonder at who he is when he is beneath Trip.

He’s viciously brought back when the younger man rolls off of him then, sliding out of him so quickly Virus snaps his legs closed and clenches his muscles, very aware of the gaping feeling, the wetness, between them as Trip laughs. “You’re seriously a little bitch.”

 _I should have expected this. I should have known._ There’d been hints all along, scattered throughout his life like their clothing on the floor. One here, one there, a slow gathering of everything he is now, finally complete after so long. _A slut._ He remembers the young doctor at the institute he’d quietly stalked for years, the one he primped and preened over in the hopes that he would catch his eye. The amount of aphrodisiacs he’d tried on himself as he writhed alone in bed and stroked himself. The shirt garters he bought on a whim one day, innocuous enough but highly suggestive. The maid outfit in his closet he occasionally wore to unnerve people, to be provocative, to intimidate; it worked unexpectedly well. All the times he’d truly been drunk, had schmoozed up against someone, usually Trip, a bit too closely. The wet dreams he’d had over the years that he pretended he hadn’t had the next morning. Yes, maybe there had always been something off about him.

He doesn’t have long to mull over this though, because Trip has him pressed to his chest now, and he catches himself mumbling idiocies, gasping and humming whenever the younger man shifts his weight or touches him, intoxicated by this new level of intimacy. There is a clarity in how hot they are, of the sweat running in rivulets over their skin, and the heat of Trip's breath as he kisses him, the fire in his fingers as he pushes two of them up his ass and fucks him again, stroking him lazily as he does. Virus barely moves his hips, inconsequential shudders that are _just_ enough to ensure he’s being touched where he wants to be touched; he isn’t certain he wants to come again, or even if he _can_ come again so soon after the intensity of their sex, but he wants to be near him, wants to press the length of his body against him and feel his weight. He touches Trip, light glances over his wrists, his hips, his chest, his face. He truly isn’t sure what he wants for the first time in his life, and it unnerves him.

In the end it doesn’t matter, because only moments before Trip drifts off to sleep he pulls his fingers out and wraps his wrist over Virus’ hip, palm pressing up against the small of his back to keep him still. And Virus doesn’t sleep. He lays awake for some time, studying the contours of Trip’s face and wondering how much of a mistake this had been.

 

\-- the morning after –

 

He never used to shower in the morning.

Showers were for after work, after a patrol, after a bar crawl, after sex, after anything and everything he did outside of the apartment. They were for washing away the grime and dead skin of a day surrounded by people he despised before slipping between the covers of his clean bed and closing the curtains at two in the morning to forget. He'd never brought anyone into his home, much less into his bedroom, never had a reason to shower in the mornings.

Until now.

He feels the water pounding down, pressure so high it almost hurts as it sloughs away the sweat and come and blood and saliva, softens the bruises and bite marks. But it can't wash away what they did last night, and he isn't sure how he feels about that.

Because he remembers the pain, the embarrassment, the fear, and he also remembers how good it felt once he got used to it, how he tangled fingers in Trip's hair and whimpered and gasped for _more, deeper, harder_. And he remembers the look in Trip's eyes when it was over – the surprise, the confusion, the amusement, none of it could mask the unexpected fear – and he curses softly into the stream of water. It can't clean away his memory.

Trip acts like nothing happened, but the fact that he'd downed three cups of coffee instead of his usual one is enough. He doesn't make eye contact when Virus staggers into the kitchen, hair still dripping and glasses fogged over. "How you feeling?" he asks evenly, as if the surface of his coffee were the most exciting thing he'd ever seen.

"Like I got hit by a truck." He might as well have been. Putting on his briefs had been uncomfortable enough; he hadn’t even bothered with pants or, for that matter, his socks yet, because bending over to get them on was bound to be miserable. Underwear and a dress shirt had to be sufficient for coffee.

"Yea." He glances up at the ceiling now. "We're probably out of the good shampoo now, hm?"

Virus doesn't answer. He wonders for a moment if Trip had taken his usual morning shower, or if he would stink of sex and _Virus_ if he stepped closer.

"You see the news?"

"How could I have?" The venom in his own voice surprises him.

"We're..." It’s sure to be something stupid, irrelevant to their lives.

 _He’s afraid what we did last night broke us, that I’m going to leave, and I should do something to distract him_ , but even as he thinks this, he spits the next words out before he can stop himself.  "Are we really not going to talk about this?"

"Uhm." Trip has that look on his face now, the guilty confused look that always betrays him when he does something wrong in the eyes of Virus. He’s been doing it for eighteen years now, and though his face has grown more chiseled over the years, he still looks like a child in these moments. _He really is afraid,_ Virus realizes, just as the younger man replies, "I'm embarrassed. Like. Six out of ten, I guess. Never get above a three, usually."

There's a lot he could say to this. _It was your idea. You took this too far. You're the one who didn't have to take it up the ass._ But what catches him is the six; it's too high. "What about me is that embarrassing, huh? We've already seen each other at our worst as kids. And don’t you hang out with fat Yanki girls who draw tentacle sex all day? That has to be above a three."

He shrugs, and seeing that helpless look on his face again makes the fight go out of Virus, makes him forget that he wants Trip to hurt from this. Because he’s hurt enough, and he's cute like that. Irritating, incorrigible. _But cute._

"If you're a six then I'm a seven. On average, anyway."

"Average."

"Yea.” He hesitates only a moment. Because if he says it first, then Trip can’t own the word, can’t humiliate him with it later once he’s recovered from the discomfort. “Three because we had sex and ten because... I can't believe what a slut I was."

"Seven’s not an average." As if that’s the only thing that matters.

"The ten is worse than the three."

"Yea ten out of ten for liking it." He grins then. "You was so loud, every time I hit your mancunt."

 _So much for needing time to recover._ "Don't call it that, that's disgusting. And I don't think a prostate is comparable to--"

"Whatever. You were so into it."

He shrugs. His own body had surprised him, and there's no getting around that now, no getting around how his fingers twitch and he feels heat in his groin merely from seeing Trip again. _I live with him. I work with him. I have to deal with this every day now, with the knowledge that we fucked and it was actually good, which is even worse than bad sex, because at least if it was terrible we could laugh and forget about it, but when it was that good..._ He isn’t sure how he feels about this.

"Was really cute actually. You always cry when you have sex? Bet you do. ‘Cause you always fuck girls from behind like you don’t want ‘em to see." And then he pauses, like he knows he’s said too much.

“How do you know that?” But he knows already. Because he is no better. Trip goes through an alarming amount of burner phones, more because of the number of women he sleeps with than because of their gun running and drug dealing. He leaves them all over the house, and Virus has tracked the majority of them, gone through a few here and there, to say nothing of the bugs he’s placed in Trip’s coil and his semi-permanent phone. He’s never looked to see if Trip had returned the gesture, though he’s fairly certain he has, and he prefers it that way. Better that they are equals. They work together after all. They need to know where the other is at all times, need to know if he’s revealing compromising information. Every so often the thought that this is absurd, that other reasons exist in the tenuous air between them, surfaces, but he’s gotten very good at dismissing those thoughts over the years.

“I sometimes run into girls who was with you.” He’s a terrible liar.

“We don’t even like the same kinds of girls.” _I like classy ones_. Not entirely true, as he’s had his share of questionable hook-ups in clubs, call girls and hostesses, but true enough. Definitely classier than who he often finds Trip with.

Trip, who only grins now. “Sometimes I compromise. It’s true, yea? Maybe not sob but I bet you always get teary.”

"Actually. I don't want to talk about this anymore after all." The grin is unnerving him.

"Don't get bitchy."

He knows he’s being bitchy, knows it’s probably unwise to act like this so soon after last night, but he can’t stop himself. Sex aside, he slept less than three hours. "Fuck you. Why didn't you make extra coffee this morning if you were going to drink that much?"

"Knew you’d get like this. Figured you were drowning yourself in the shower," he yawns, tongue curling over his teeth in a way that distracts Virus. He can’t have gotten more than two hours himself, and though there is a sluggishness to his movements, he doesn’t seem particularly worn out.

"You came too much, you animal. Took a while to clean out. Why didn't you use a condom?" He doesn’t even know what he’s saying but he can’t stop, just as he can’t make eye contact again.

"I offered but you were too impatient, remember? Said you wanted it over with."

He remembers, just as he remembers the electricity in his veins short out when Trip had first fingered him, touched that spot deep inside that switched off the power he had over his own body. "You shouldn't have come in me then, that was gross."

Trip shrugs again. "Bitchy. You’re so wide I couldn't do anything else."

"Only because you’re big," he snaps. "Ripped me open, you know. I was bleeding." _Not enough to deter either of us, though._

He arches an eyebrow then. "Hm? Can I still fit?"

The bluntness is unexpected. Virus squeezes his thighs together and hisses softly. There’s only one way to handle this, one way to be able to keep living and working and breathing together, as synced and inseparable as they are. "I don't think we should be embarrassed around each other. Bad for work." _And us_ , but there’s no need to add that.

"So we should get over it by-"

"Fucking our way down to zero out of ten." He licks his lips, dares himself to raise his eyes long enough to meet the younger man’s. The same as his own.

Trip only stares a moment before clicking his tongue, "I was gonna say by not talking about it but okay.”

Virus doesn’t have to answer. He only has to step forward, hop onto the table in front of Trip, and lay his feet in his lap. He arches his back and leans forward, face dangerously close to Trip’s as he stares into his eyes. It’s a long moment before he can tell the younger man is getting nervous, uncomfortable, and then Virus leers, teeth white and vicious, as he takes Trip’s hand in his own, slides it up his thigh. “Or _up_ to an eleven.”

-

 


End file.
